


Two Fools

by Ulliva



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, General idiocy, Sexy Times
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-08
Updated: 2019-05-08
Packaged: 2020-02-28 11:48:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18755854
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ulliva/pseuds/Ulliva
Summary: Jaime and Brienne post first kiss.





	Two Fools

     She didn’t know how long she’d slept. The fire was still going, and it was dark. The room was warm and quiet, and she felt unnerved. It took a while before the feeling settled. For the first time in—a quick recount was needed to confirm— _years_ , Brienne was at ease. Wholly, completely at rest. It was disquieting to say the least. She couldn’t remember falling asleep, as the comfortable inebriation had lulled her to sleep. The castle was mostly silent, apart from a drunken giggle a few hallways away. Both Stark girls alive and well in their own home. They had two of their brothers with them as well, which was more family than she’d ever had. Another worry crossed off her list. There were no armies outside the gates. She had a roof over her head, a warm meal in her belly, and an arm softly draped around her waist. 

     The heavy furs were almost too warm; the back of her knees felt damp. Brienne didn’t dare move. She could count the hairs on Jaime’s beard as they pressed into her back, and his even breaths, hitting her shoulder in hot gusts. The warmth clearly didn’t bother him. _Jaime Lannister_ , she had to tell herself. The name had become like a prayer over the years. It had carried her on her travels, on and off the King’s Road. _Ser_ _Jaime Lannister_ —hooves on gravel. _Knighted and named Kingsguard in his sixteenth year_ —Pod’s mindless yapping. _At the Sack of King’s Landing murdered his King_ —goosebumps. After a while, not from the horror of liking a killer, something that went against everything she stood for, but only from the cold at night. _Pardoned by King Robert Baratheon_ —her favorite part. _Thereafter known as the Kingslayer_ —and her least favorite. She’d wished on dandelions and shooting stars that they still shared the same sky, wherever he was. She knew the Seven wouldn’t approve of such superstitions. They probably wouldn’t approve of them sharing the same bed, but Brienne couldn’t find it in her to care.

     Wide awake now, she couldn’t help but wonder if the fire needed kindling. She lay, contemplating how to sit up without rousing Jaime. She knew better than to turn her back on a killer—or a lion. He was barely a cub now, curled up behind her. She didn’t feel the need to get away from him and he didn’t seem inclined to leave her bed. His hand shifted from her side to her stomach as she turned onto her back, propped herself up a little. His face rested against her shoulder. He didn’t care. She had watched him sleep plenty of times, but never like this; the creases in his face smoothed out. Creases he didn’t have the first time she laid eyes on him and he'd asked if ‘that’ was a woman.

     ‘What are you doing?’ Jaime didn’t open his eyes, didn’t wait for a reply. Like it was the most natural thing in this world that she could feel the words against her skin.

     ‘Nothing,’ came out first. He smiled. ‘The fire—‘ was all she could add after that. She completed her sentence by sitting up, ready to swing her legs off the side of the bed. Jaime sat up at once.

     ‘Let me,’ he insisted. Brienne had undoubtedly built more fires in her time, but she let him. His bare feet made an agreeable sound against the stone floor. The flames were only a hand high and the logs glowed a deep orange. He sat on one knee and carefully piled some more wood on. A snide comment about tending to a fire stark naked came to mind, but she pushed it aside. There had been no sneers, no witty remarks. Jaime had ceased to speak to her in his sing-song way. She’d hated the way he spoke, a stress on every syllable, like he was addressing an audience every time he opened his mouth. She’d hated everything about him at one point.

     She watched him now, the skin on his back stretching over bone and muscle—and she knew how he felt there. He hugged his right arm to his chest and poked at the fire with his left. Squinting at the light, his lips parted—and she knew how they felt, too. She hadn’t allowed herself to believe until his lips crashed into hers. She was so well-trained in ignoring his cues that when he’d started to undress in front of her, she had told herself it was a joke. This is what they did. For years now, right up to that moment, they had been sparring. And every time Brienne had herself convinced it was wiser not to imagine things, Jaime would look at her. For too long, but never staring, not anymore. Questioning—himself? He had untied the string on her shirt, and she had waited to feel a rush of panic; no one had ever undressed her with good intentions. The panic didn’t come.

     The kissing wasn’t like sparring, but like battle. The combination of chaos and focus, and the exhilarating realization that she was doing it—keeping her head above water. The fear that this streak would end. Jaime had pulled back, and it had been a relief to find his breathing as shaky as hers. A huff and a chuckle between kisses, as if he had trouble believing as well. His kisses grew softer, his fingers in her hair and then on her neck, featherlight over a bruise on her shoulder. Down her side and past her waist. Brienne had tangled her fingers in his hair like she’d thought of many times before—though sometimes only so she’d have a good grip as she knocked his head against a wall.

     The disappointment as his head slipped from her grasp had been brief. It’d dropped to her chest, kissed between her breasts, on her belly as Jaime kneeled in front of her. She had felt on display, towering over him like that. The word ‘beast’ came to mind in different men’s voices. ‘Beauty’ in other, less hateful but more mocking tones. But when Jaime had looked up at her, there was none of that. She’d felt taller than she’d ever had. Brienne had never been able to pinpoint the exact moment those words had disappeared in his eyes, but she remembered calling him Ser Jaime for the first time, and realizing they weren’t there. She’d wondered if it was worse to be called a beast than a slayer.

     Jaime had caressed her skin with his lips, with his nose, with his cheek, erasing each time he’d called her anything but her name. And then there were no more apologies. No wonderings or realizations. Just his lips, his tongue, his fingers.

 

     Jaime was just staring into the flames at this point. The room heated up quickly; Brienne was only half covered but still reasonably warm. She straightened the heavy blanket at her feet and threw it open. Jaime snapped out of his dreaming.

     ‘Come back to bed,’ she told him. He complied, crawled into bed. He lifted her arm and dropped it when he settled by her side. He rested his head on her chest with a sigh. It was a different type of rest like this. As if sharing a bed made it twice as effective, even if they only slept half as long. He drew the outline of her breast with one finger, tracing down over her ribs, and back up towards her collarbone. She’d found plenty of reason to believe he wasn’t fond of her shape. Jaime had only seen her in a dress once, and had fitted her with new armor soon after. Perhaps that had meant the opposite of what she’d told herself. He’d perfectly memorized every part of her.

     Brienne was guilty of the same. His mane missed the South and had gone grey with worry over the years. His beard was considerably longer, but she preferred this to a clean jaw. The birthmark by the bridge of his nose was still there. The bottom tooth that was misaligned when he bit down. The smile in his eyes. How they appeared to change color with the weather. She could only see eyelashes now. Brienne dragged her thumb over his lips and felt the pointy tooth poke the soft pad of her finger. Jaime propped himself up on his elbow. She watched his eyes take her in; face, body, hair, face. There were questions; _us? here?_ Somewhere in that realm. She cocked her head in reply.

     ‘Did you imagine this?’ His voice was low. Brienne had imagined many things. There was little else to do on the back of a horse. Walks in the garden in King’s Landing. A silk cloak. Blond children on the beach. Not this. She was taking too long to reply, and Jaime’s lips turned smug.

     ‘It’s natural—for these feelings to develop when you spend a lot of time together.’ His eyebrows raised. ‘Don’t flatter yourself,’ she added. There was a sort of wry excitement in knowing she was the first woman he’d ever pursued.

     ‘Flatter myself? If this was about the amount of time spent together, you’d be sharing your bed with Ser Podrick Payne right now,’ Jaime sang. Brienne felt her nose wrinkle at the idea of Pod in her bed. It would be like laying with a brother. She swallowed that thought.

     ‘Podrick isn’t a knight,’ she said instead. Jaime just blinked at her; she had nothing and she knew it. ‘Oh, shut up,’ she reinforced that fact. Jaime laughed, out loud, and she didn’t care about losing face in front of him anymore. He rested his head on her chest again and kissed the skin he found there.

     She felt the chuckles against her skin, on her breast, as his hand cupped the other.

     ‘See, I don’t understand—‘

     ‘Oh, here we go,’ Jaime groaned as he licked her nipple. She made a half-hearted attempt to swat him off.

     ‘I don’t understand—‘ she repeated, louder, ‘how it’s always women that look weak when they fall for men.’ There was no reply this time. ‘You are here, because of me.’ Jaime’s head raised, and his mouth opened. ‘Don’t _lie_.’ His lips closed again. Brienne sat up against the head of the bed. Jaime rested his head in her lap and listened. ‘You’re here, in this castle, because of me. You rode here from King’s Landing because of me.’ Still no snarky comment. ‘—and if I had closed that door in your face earlier, you would still be sat at that table, getting drunk with your brother and my squire,’ she finished. She felt confident summing it up like that.

     Jaime scoffed.

     ‘You’re absolutely right,’ he simply replied.

     ‘I do hate it when you mock me,’ Brienne said.

     ‘I’m not,’ he assured her. ‘I’m not!’ His shoulders raised and then lowered again with a sigh. ‘Ser Brienne of Tarth, I am eternally grateful that you allowed me into your bed, and inside your beautiful cunt.’ His teeth pressed together in a wide grin, his eyes reduced to dark lines in the dim room. She hated the hardness of his consonants. As soon as the last one landed, his chest shook with chuckles.

     ‘Excuse me?’ Brienne sat up altogether, making Jaime sit up as well.

     ‘What?’ There was still laughter in his voice.

     ‘ _Cunt_?’

     ‘What do you want me to call it—‘ he visibly searched for a term that would allow him to ridicule the entire conversation. ‘—private council?’

     ‘Jaime Lannister—‘ It still thrilled her to hear herself say his name.

     ‘Sapphire treasury,’ he offered instead.

     ‘You are _such_ —‘

     ‘Golden conch,’ he exclaimed.

     ‘—a disappointment!’ Brienne shouted over him. So people would assume there was a drunken brawl at Winterfell. It wasn’t unexpected after they’d all cheated death.

     ‘You’ve been banging on about not being a lady,’ he defended himself.

     ‘Were you raised by wildlings?’

     ‘I wasn’t raised at all! I was—kept,’ he tried.

     ‘Don’t even try to talk yourself out of this one. Get out,’ Brienne told him. She hadn’t yet decided how far she wanted to take this. It did feel like a relief to finally have him insult her again. Jaime sat up, seemingly also unable to read how serious this argument was. Brienne couldn’t blame him.

     ‘I’m not,’ he finally said, defeated. He got up, collected his clothes from the floor and bunched them up under his arm. Instead of heading for the door, he headed back for the bed, and sat down beside it.

     ‘What are you doing?’

     ‘Waiting until you change your mind,’ he said. He disappeared onto the floor. She heard him try to get comfortable on the stone, hitting the canvas of his pants several times to make a dent to rest his head on.

     Brienne covered herself with the furs again. She could be stubborn too. This could take a while. She soon realized the blanket was too warm and too heavy, especially now that the fire had been rekindled. The room fell silent again, the castle more quiet than before. Brienne sighed. Jaime annoyed her beyond measure, but that wasn’t the only way he’d gotten under her skin.

     ‘Golden conch, _really_ ,’ she repeated. More sniggering from beyond the edge of the bed.

     ‘My apologies, there were no appropriate terms in the fancy books my father made me read,’ he brought up as an excuse.

     ‘Oh, fuck off,’ Brienne groaned.

     ‘Would you have preferred it if I spent more time in brothels like my brother? Could have picked up a thing or two,’ he went on.

     ‘I’d prefer it if you shut up.’

     He shut up. She lay smiling at the ceiling. She couldn’t remember the number of nights they’d ended like this. Incessant complaining, huffing, shuffling. Of course, his hands had been tied back then. She’d been less comfortable too. The shuffling on the floor stopped, and all that was left was the crackling of the fire.

     Brienne listened to his breathing. Even and closer than she was used to. These were the things she’d imagined more than anything. Falling asleep knowing he’d be there in the morning. Eating breakfast side by side. Hooking into his arm on a stroll. She knew they’d get weird looks, but she’d gotten those her whole life. At least she’d get something out of them this time. Looking at him and being able to smile when he caught her, instead of having to avert her eyes.

 

     She turned to her side to peek over the edge. Before she got the chance to take a proper look, a hand wedged between her legs and pulled her off the bed. In a poor attempt to brace herself, the flat of her knee hit the stone. It was probably bruised already, and knees were finicky anyway. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d woken up without an ache in either one of them. She sat up, straddling Jaime. He looked startled as well, apparently surprised at the strength he possessed in his left arm. He put it to the test again and wrapped a hand around her wrist. He pulled her close.

     ‘Did I hurt you?’ He sounded genuinely worried.

     ‘No,’ Brienne lied.

     ‘You’re a terrible liar,’ Jaime told her, kissing her hand.

     ‘I’m not a liar,’ she agreed. That was something to be proud of.

     ‘Clearly.’

     When he was certain she wouldn’t turn on him when he let go, Jaime loosened his grip on her arm. He ran his hand up her shoulder and down her back. It rested on her buttock. His chin lifted a little and she realized that he felt like _he_ was on top. The half-nod was a question.

     ‘What, here?’

     He shrugged.

     ‘I’ve come to appreciate a dry floor. Warm. Pillow. Could be worse.’ He dug the back of his head in his bundle of clothes to make a point. ‘View’s not bad either,’ he went on. He squeezed her thigh, making his intentions clear. ‘Are you lost, Ser Brienne?’

     ‘Are you? There’s a perfectly good bed right here.’

     Jaime narrowed his eyes at her, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. He reached between her legs and touched her, brought his fingers to his lips. She watched his tongue, shiny behind his teeth.

     ‘You’re being awfully difficult for someone who’s _this_ wet,’ he decided.

     Brienne hadn’t decided if she liked him this foul-mouthed. He was extremely arrogant for a man who’d admitted to being jealous of someone she had barely exchanged so much as a sentence with. Not that he wasn’t right. She did know of one foolproof way to shut him up; she leaned down, one hand on the floor and one in his hair, and kissed him. She was surprised how quickly kissing him had grown on her. His lips were pliant, and after a few misses mostly followed her lead. She pressed her mouth against his upper lip—hit mostly mustache. Her nose grazed his. His head tilted back as he opened his mouth ever so slightly. The tip of his tongue waited for her just behind his teeth. She kissed that too, let him push it past her lips as his fingers knotted in her hair.

     When he finally broke their kiss, his hips raised to meet her. She wasn’t sure it was a voluntary gesture. His hand dropped again, and, with her silent permission, between her thighs. Jaime slipped a finger inside of her easily. It didn’t feel like much, but it wasn’t nearly as foreign as it had been the first time. It was probably too early for favorites, but Brienne preferred his mouth. She realized hers had been open, and suddenly remembered to close it. It quickly opened again to mirror his.

     A second finger entered her, and she couldn’t help but list the descriptors Jaime had given her. There was no good name. It didn’t matter. His fingertips found a malleable spot inside her and curled against it. The sensation closed her eyes and forced a sigh out of her.

     She remembered the first time he’d taken her breath away. She’d still called him Kingslayer and he’d told her she was uglier in daylight than at night. His mouth never stood still, and the thought of leaving him somewhere in the woods had gotten sweeter by the day. When it occurred to her that he hadn’t spoken in a while, she had turned around to make sure he was alright. He’d looked her in the eye, and she was sure she caught him glancing down at her lips. She’d turned back around quickly enough, but not before the air was knocked from her chest. It had felt like a punch on the breastplate; not painful, but enough to leave an impression.

     Her hands rested on his thighs behind her as he worked his fingers in and out. She was glad for the dark room, because she knew her pale skin did nothing to hide her blush. She could feel it spread over her cheeks and warm her eyes. Burn her chest. She started lifting her hips to meet him, felt herself drip onto his hand. She could easily see how people would get hungry for this. She was.

     She found Jaime hard when she reached down. She felt the soft skin stretch over his cock with her fingertips, the head smooth. Jaime blinked slowly. She didn’t know whether she wanted to wipe the stupid grin off his face or kiss it. There was still time to figure out what she wanted. For now, she bent down to kiss him again. She pushed Jaime’s hand out of the way and wrapped hers around his cock. Because she wanted to, and she could, and she wanted to see his face when she did. Her previous touches had been more tentative, but she’d watched him. This wasn’t difficult. She carefully moved her hand down, and then up again. A sigh. She did it again. She let the tip of his cock slide past the ring her thumb and pointer finger formed and lowered herself so it nudged her. Jaime blinked slowly, but when his eyes were halfway closed, opened them again. He swallowed. Brienne repeated it a handful of times before she sat back, let him sink into her.

     In hindsight, his expression of gratitude had been entirely fitting for their bond. He knew that she valued the explicit courtesy, and while his delivery had lacked, his intention had been pure. She couldn’t imagine letting anyone else close to her like this. That said, he was inside her, and she wasn’t sure what to do next. She started to regret telling him to shut up and him following her order for once.

     ‘You know what feels good,’ Jaime simply reminded her.

     Did she? She knew that she had liked what he had done, but at this point, fingers were headed to surpass his cock in the ranking. Brienne lifted her hips and lowered herself again. She felt the patterned stone dig into the skin of her knees. She continued riding him, because she could tell he enjoyed it. She could feel him, but it wasn’t like when he had her on her back. None of this was how she’d imagined it in the first place. There was no violence, no pain, no blood. The thing that had hurt the most was Jaime knocking his forehead against her bruised brow, but even that wasn’t worth mentioning.

     Clearly realizing her mind was elsewhere, Jaime touched her cheek. His hand drew the same path she knew by now, and landed on her hip. It didn’t rest there. His fingers dug into her skin and held her down. When she caught on, he urged her forward slightly, then back again. His chin cocked to the side for a moment; _how’s this?_

     It was better. She didn’t move up and down now, but rather back and forth, grinding against him. It put an entirely different strain on her thighs. The sensation wasn’t unlike the kind his fingers had given her; she forgot herself, failed to suppress a moan. He barely moved in and out of her, his cock always buried inside, where it belonged. The only thing reminding her of herself was the hand on her hip, its firm grasp grounding her. She loved his hand, peeled his fingers off her and brought it to her face, kissed his palm. Loved, loved, loved. Too many things to sum up.

     Her face burned, so she bent down to bury it against his neck. Her heart beat just below her ears while she felt his in the dip between his collarbones. His hand traced—upwards this time. From her calf to her knee, as if to make sure she wasn’t hurt. Up her thigh, fingers fanning out, thumb digging into the crevice where torso met leg. He rolled his hips up slightly, sliding deeper inside of her. He did it twice, three times.

     ‘Is this alright?’

     Brienne could do nothing but nod, try to keep up with him, soon realizing she didn’t need to. He had her. His arm wrapped around her back, locking her in place as he thrust into her. He went faster, deeper, didn’t give her time to catch her breath. It culminated in a stifled sob against his beard. Her knees buckled, her back arched. She sank her teeth into his chin and felt the rest of her body follow. Jaime pressed his lips against her cheek.

     When the heaviness subsided, she lifted herself back onto her knees and sat up. She wrapped a hand around his cock again and stroked him, remembering the rhythm of his thrusts. She reached out a hand to feel the bruised skin stretch over his ribs as his chest expanded. Love. The way he looked at her. Love. His fingers covering hers. At first, Brienne thought he was taking over from her. After all, he would be better at doing this himself. His grip tightened, and his hand guided hers through a few strokes. He let go again, and Brienne continued as directed. After a couple of deep breaths, Jaime’s breathing stuttered. His fingertips dug into her thigh again as the muscles in his stomach quivered. His back lifted off the floor when she finished him. His thighs twitched.

     ‘Fuck,’ Jaime concluded.

     Brienne chuckled and climbed off of him. She sat on the side of the bed and inspected her knees, rubbed some dirt off and scratched the imprint the uneven stone had left. Jaime took a look at the glistening drops on his chest and stomach and sighed. He tugged the ball of clothing out from under his head. The back of his skull hit the ground harder than expected. Brienne snorted. He wiped himself clean with what turned out to be a shirt sleeve.

     ‘You do know you’ll have to wash your own clothes here,’ she reminded him. He unfolded the undershirt and took a longer look at it. It was hers. She’d been meaning to pull Jaime up from the floor, but instead just shook her head and pulled her legs up, stuck her feet back under the blanket.

     ‘Podrick can do it,’ he suggested.

     ‘That’s disgusting,’ Brienne snapped. She made room for him by her side nonetheless.

     ‘Or you could just leave it,’ Jaime continued. ‘Wear your heart on your sleeve kind of thing.’ She turned her back on him as he got into bed with her again, covered them both with the scratchy furs. ‘I’m sure that’s a tradition among some—wildling peoples.’

     ‘You are _unbelievable_ ,’ she muttered. Brienne had to hand it to him; he was excellent with his mouth. She didn’t engage with his ridiculous suggestions, pretended to shy away when he put a hand on her waist again. He pulled her closer and buried his nose in her hair.

     ‘Hm, so are you,’ he agreed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first work in the GoT fandom so go easy on me! I haven't read a line of asoiaf in my life so I just wrote them my way. This was supposed to be much more sentimental and sensual, but I guess their kink is getting on each other's nerves. Thanks to the ladies who helped me with the pussy-naming brainstorm, you know who you are!


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